Pray for Peace
by Pandorama
Summary: Abby in her youth: a story about the mother daughter dynamic, coming of age, and persevering.
1. I pray for peace

_I initially started a Maggie/Abby fic just after my own mother passed away last year and ended up hating how it was turning out. After several renewed attempts, my Creative Writing teacher encouraged me to continue and I found inspiration in my muse, as usual, Alanis. Each chapter is a snippet into Abby's younger years, in no particular order, simply inspired by each subsequent line of the song. It's an experiment of sorts and a challenge for many reasons - delving into the terrifying first person, portraying manic depression in a light I hope will give insight to my readers, and tackling a story that has a lot of personal attatchments. This dedication is threefold: first, to my own mother, who minded my grammar from a young age and sent me into the world of writing with a fanatical obsession over proper form. Second, to the friends I have who suffer from manic depression, and in writing this I hope to spread awareness. And three, to my Creative Writing classmates and professor who encouraged me along the way and made me laugh in the process. Namaste._

"Pray for Peace"  
Alanis Morissette 

I pray for peace  
They require me to kick into high gear  
We may as well have had our phDs  
My quickened pulse was never taken into account  
I pray they let out or talk it out  
She would give me a wink across the room  
I would have made a really good lawyer  
I had a really good strategic way to hide the holes in the wall  
Thank God it was the god damn wall  
We were the feminine forces  
Who would calm my mother down?  
Who would calm me down once I talked her through it?  
My mother and I were the official peace makers  
It was a full time job  
I would send my mother directly to bed, do not collect 200  
We'd talk about it 'till 5am when I'd visit five years later  
We would pray for peace  
It was perfectly familiar and comfortable

"_I Pray for peace"_

Christmas Eve, 1987 (Age Eighteen)

We've been driving for nearly twenty minutes. I have no idea where I am, and the snow is picking up. I'm freezing without my coat, but I didn't stop as I left. I just had to get us out of there.

Maggie begged me to come home for Christmas. I told her no, told her I was too busy, told her my friend had invited me to her parents' house. But she asked over and over, and finally, she had Eric ask me. It was a dirty move. I can't say no to my baby brother. So I drove to Milwaukee, three hours in the snow and sleet, in my 1978 Honda that shudders when I go over 50 miles per hour. The first day and a half were fine. Maggie seemed almost normal, baking cookies, buying a turkey. I took Eric sledding, and it was...nice. Like we were a regular family. And then I went to the store to buy cranberry sauce and all hell broke loose. I walked in to the smell of burned turkey. Baking sheets were strewn around the kitchen, crumbs everywhere, broken dishes. My mother sitting in the middle of the floor, crying and screaming, Eric backed against the wall looking shaken, tears running down his face. I took him by the arm and marched him out of the house, to the car, away from her. My blood boiled. He's twelve years old and it's Christmas eve. I won't let her do this to him.

Eric has been silent the whole ride, wrapped in the front seat in a ratty blanket that was lying in my backseat. I don't know where we're going. I don't know what I'm looking for. I just know he's the only thing that matters in my life, and I won't let her hurt him. I see lights and people ahead. It's Christmas Eve, and everything is closed, but here are people and lights and...it's a church. I don't think, I just pull into the parking lot and park the car. I turn to my brother, my beautiful, sweet, little brother who hasn't done anything wrong and I finally speak. "Let's go inside."

He nods. Neither of us have ever been interested in going to church, but it doesn't make a difference right now. It's Christmas Eve. We might as well.

We sit in the back, my arm around him. We half listen, half gaze around at the decoration, and enjoy the warmth and comfort in this place. The minister tells us all to bow our heads in prayer. I close my eyes and rest my head on my folded hands as I've seen people do in movies. Before I realize it, tears are rolling down my face, dropping onto my lap. I bite down on my lip to keep from making a noise. I won't let Eric see me cry. I begin praying, as best I know how. I don't know who or what I'm praying to, I just know I need something to change. Some help. Some peace.

I wipe my eyes hastily as the minister speaks again. I turn to Eric and manage, somehow, to smile. "You want to go home?"

He nods, and I take his hand. It's time to go pick up the pieces again.


	2. They require me to kick into high gear

"_They require me to kick into high gear"_

March, 1984 (Age Fifteen)

She's flitting about, nonsensical gibberish falling from her mouth like she's vomiting words; no particular order, no coherence, just utter nonsense. Grabbing items and tossing them into the cart as though trying to win a scavenger hunt, as though she has to accumulate a certain pile of this and that or the world will cave in on itself. Frozen waffles, limes, molasses, dried apricots, a bag of lentils, two cans of imitation crab meat, a glass bottle of iced tea...none of which we need. None of which we even eat, save perhaps for the limes that we slice and put in our soda on the weekends. I've got a grip on my brother's sleeve, making sure he doesn't join in the fun. Just what I need is both of them running rampant.

She grabs for a carton of eggs and bumps against the counter, letting the container fall to the floor, the dull crack of a ruined dozen. She stares at it a moment and then breaks down. "Look what I did, jesus, I've ruined dinner." She sinks to her knees, head in hand, and commences her performance. There's a crowd gathering.

I kick into high gear, direct my brother to push the cart to the front and unload the groceries, two crisp twenties in hand. I pull my mother to her feet and slowly walk her to the front, still a spectacle in motion as she reverts to the mindset of a small child, wailing and cursing over her blunder. I sit her on a bench, still muttering and fidgeting in the throes of hysteria, and take the two brown grocery sacks from the cashier, leaving the change with my brother. He knows better than to run off with it, he's learned by now. She follows us, still in a state, to the car, where I deposit the groceries, help my brother into his seat, and urge my mother into the passenger's side. My hand is steady over hers, trembling, as I pry the keys free and glance around to be sure I won't be noticed, then adjust the driver's seat to accommodate the imposition of driving underage. These things aren't acts of rebellion. I don't really have much of a choice. I drive slowly, carefully, knowing that all I've worked to hold together will fall to shit if I'm caught. The authorities tend to frown on underage drivers.

Slowly...painstakingly, I rev the engine, the old car shuddering to life beneath us. My hand grips the stick shift, the other the wheel, foot strains to meet the clutch, and we move, leave the place behind us. I drive better than she does. Tap the accelerator, caress the brake, flick the turn signals this way and that, all with expert care. I'm practiced. I know this routine.


	3. We may as well have had our PhD's

"_We may as well have had our PhD's"_

March, 1983 (Age Fourteen)

There's a stream of curses a mile long falling from my lips that I can only thank god Maggie can't hear as I sprint along, dodging traffic and pedestrians. My lunch break is not even half an hour long, and somehow I have to get home to pick up the essay I left on my bureau when I caught the bus this morning, late as usual. 12:07, and I'm barely halfway there. Fourth-period history starts at 12:29 sharp, and there's not even a question of coming in late without detention. I'm not even supposed to be off campus for lunch as a freshman, but that's sort of beside the point now, weaving through another block on the way home. I suddenly wish like crazy I hadn't worn those high-tops today and that I had my running shoes. 12:09, and I reach the corner of Bauer and Madison. Two more blocks. I think my lungs are in about four hundred pieces inside my chest, like confetti, and there's going to be a nasty bruise where my backpack is hitting my hip. More cursing as I turn onto Sycamore, and a flying leap over the curb across the street and through the Nelsons' back yard, into the McNamara's yard, and across. I bolt for the garage, but it's closed. Perfect. The key has to be in the deepest pocket of my bag, which I dump onto the lawn as I wrench the door open and tear inside. Weird. The house is clean, for once, and there's an empty glass on the counter. I stop in my tracks. There are noises coming from the garage…something's not right. And it hits me. Maggie.

I don't even stop to think before grabbing at the garage door, but it's locked. From all the noise, I know at least the Volvo is running, and maybe the Honda. Jim's Honda. He left it here while he went off wherever it was for work. I don't even have to think about it to know she planned it. The operator's voice is way too calm. "9-1-1, what's your –"

"It's my mother, she locked herself in the garage and –"

I hear shuffling on the other end and the voice interrupts me. "Stay calm, dear. What is your address?"

"377 West Pineridge, I think the cars are running, both of them, somebody has to –"

"I'm sending someone right now, dear, can you stay on the line with me and tell me your name?"

The phone is cradled in my shoulder and chin as I search the kitchen drawers for the spare I know is there. "It's Abby, my mother's name is Maggie, she's been depressed… she's suicidal, she's tried it before." Damnit, no key…her purse, check her purse. "Look, I know what I'm talking about, she hasn't been taking her pills, you have to give her something."

"What kind of pills?" The voice is more serious now.

Her purse is nowhere in sight. "Dep…dep-something. Depacote." The bottle is on the counter, full. I can at least know she didn't overdose this time. "Look, tell them to put her in a psych hold, she's going to –" The key, on the top of the fridge. "I found the key, I have to go." Amid protest, I toss the phone down as I run like hell to the garage door and open it. It's not even a little bit of a shock to find both cars running. She's in the Volvo, passed out, and I pull the key from the ignition and drag her out onto the driveway under the arms. Two fingers to the jugular, I've done it a thousand times in the CPR class at the YMCA. Slow, but there. I count it against my wristwatch…I'm on forty-six when the ambulance arrives. She'll be okay, they tell me, like I haven't just done their job for them. Right, fine. She's never fine.


	4. My quickened pulse

"_My quickened pulse was never taken into account"_

January, 1984 (Age Fifteen)

"Do you swear the testimony you shall give in the case now pending before this court shall be the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" A sweaty-looking man with a neck thicker than my whole waist holds out a Bible for me to put my hand on. I nod, my voice not coming out quite right.

The judge peers down at me. "Miss, I need you to say it."

It's like a mouse is speaking. "Yes."

The giant-neck man nods for me to take a seat in something that looks an awful lot like a desk from school and not half as cool as on _The Rockford Files_. I'd been hoping it would be like that. At least then I'd have something to remember about turning fifteen. Instead I get to sit in a grimy orange plastic chair in an itchy wool dress that's supposed to make me look mature, but I'm pretty sure I look more like I found it in the Dumpster behind a homeless shelter. The judge looks down at me again, and I notice for the first time just how wrinkly he is. His wrinkles have wrinkles. I imagine laying his face on an ironing board and pressing out the creases until he's got a smooth face about three feet wide. "Miss, could you state the name for the record?"

I lean forward, doing my best to seem professional, trying to conjure the image of James Garner standing in front of me, arms crossed, interrogating me. "Abigail Marjorie Wyczenski."

"Miss Wyczenski, could you tell us about yourself, please?" The wrinkles on his face get even deeper when he talks and wrinkles his eyebrows at me.

"Um…like what?" I shift around a little in my seat. There are about fifteen people looking at me, including my mother. And her. It's her fault we're here, trying to convince a bunch of strangers our mother isn't crazy, even if she is. Because we'd rather live with a crazy mother than her. Because we're loyal. Because even if it kills the both of us to put up with it, with her, we're all she has. The judge clears his throat, and I realize he's said something. My heart beats a little faster when I see his irritated expression. "Sorry…I didn't…"

"Could you take us through a typical day in your house, please?" Giant-neck man is about two feet from me, and I swear he's radiating heat. It's a thousand degrees in here, I think.

"Um…well, I wake up, and then usually it's my job to check on Eric. My brother." _And then we check to see if she's gone missing in the middle of the night_. "And we have breakfast –"

"Who makes breakfast?"

I swallow. My spit is all sticky, and I really want a glass of water. "Huh?"

"Do you make breakfast? Does your mother?"

_Well, that depends if she's there that day._ "Sometimes I make it. Sometimes she does." The judge nods and makes a note. "And then we get ready for school. I walk Eric to the bus stop." I ramble on, not really all that sure of what I'm saying. Just watching her. Watching me. My heart pounds in my throat every time she jots something down in a leather notebook. For next time, when she tries to separate us again. The judge is clearing his throat again, and I feel a little jab from giant-neck man. My heart leaps. "What? I mean, can you repeat the question?"

He looks thoroughly irritated now. "I asked if you felt your mother was a stable figure in your life."

"Oh. Well, I mean…" She's watching me. They both are, eyes burning into me. My throat feels tight as I suck in a breath and narrow my eyes. "Yes. Of course, she's my _mother_." A flat-out lie. She's the least stable thing in the universe, but I'm not about to say that. Not about to sell her out.

"If you had the choice, would you rather live with your mother or your aunt?" Now everybody's looking at me, and I swear I have "liar" written across my forehead.

My voice comes out steady. I've practiced this. "We're fine the way we are. I don't want to change things."


	5. Let it out or talk it out

"_I pray they let it out or talk it out"_

March, 1980 (Age Eleven)

Eric and I are watching cartoons when the phone rings. I can tell who it is when she picks up, and when she stretches the cord from the kitchen to the bedroom and closes the door. I stand and look down at my brother, sucking on a cherry popsicle, eyes glued to the television. I cross my arms. "Stay there. I have to go do something."

"Kay." He doesn't much care so long as he's entertained.

"You better be here when I come back." I tiptoe down the hall and crouch next to the door to listen in. I wish we had a second phone so I could hear him, too. Maybe I could figure out where he is that way. I think Maggie made him move this time. She was really mad when I visited him. She hates him.

Her voice is high and I know they're fighting. They're always fighting. She only calls him once in a while to yell at him, I think about money, except last time it wasn't. It was about me. I press my ear to the door. "Don't you dare put this on me, Eddie, you were the one who left." There's a pause and I swear I can hear him. I cup my hand around my ear. "Oh, right, just what I want is to let you screw them up even more and then run off. No. Stay the hell away from them." So he wants to see me. Us. I can feel that thing in the back of my throat tightening up. I miss him. I want him to come rescue us and get us away from her. And she won't let him. I don't think I ever hated her until right now. We could be happy if she'd let him come back…they could be happy, maybe. He asked about her a lot when I was there; I could tell he misses her. And I think she misses him. She's always red and puffy after they fight, and they say you only get upset with the people you really love.

She's yelling at him some more about money so I slide down the wall and imagine what life would be like if he'd take us away. He could come and scoop us up and take us away…maybe somewhere really warm, warmer than Minnesota. I imagine him riding in on a white horse and rescuing me from the bedroom window. Then Eric. Then we'd ride off into the sunset and not have to worry about money or moving around all the time or mom getting sad or angry or any of it.

He sent Christmas presents. A week late, but neither of us cared. There was an Etch-a-Sketch and a Potato Head for Eric, even though he has one already, but he lost most of the pieces so it was nice. I'd already gotten a bunch of Barbies and board games and it was probably the best thing that's happened all year, opening the Walkman and the tapes. He knows me better than anybody – all my favorite bands. Van Halen, Devo, and Sex Pistols. Maggie was mad as anything, saying he was spoiling me and trying to bribe me or something. I didn't care. She was really just mad that he sent her a gift, too. A photo of them and a note she wouldn't let me see. I know he misses her, and I hate that she won't let him come home.

"Abigail Marjorie Wyczenski!" The door flies open. Busted. I look up, and she's got her arms crossed. "What have I told you about eavesdropping?"

I shrug. "I just wanted to talk to him. I was waiting for you to be done so I could ask."

Her face is softer all of a sudden. Almost motherly. "Sweetheart, I'm not doing this to punish you. Your father and I…we made a decision. He made a decision, and I have to hold him to that. It's for your own good."

"I want to see him!"

"You can't." Her mouth is set in a thin little line. "He left _us_, not the other way around. Try to understand –"

I turn around and run to my room, slamming the door. Face down on my bed, headphones over my ears, away from her. Away from all of them.


	6. She would give me a wink

"_She would give me a wink across the room"_

November, 1983 (Age fourteen)

"Abby, are you sure you want –"

"I'm sure." My palms are sweaty, balled into fists inside the sleeves of a too-big sweatshirt. I pull the ski hat down further on my forehead, matting my bangs to my skin, hiding my eyes behind my hair. Incognito. Sonya nods and gives me a small smile, patting my shoulder. "Thanks." I leave her in the foyer of the eerily quiet building and follow an orderly down the sort of darkened hallway that belongs in a horror movie. He's got somewhere in the area of nine million keys dangling from his belt, one of which he uses – without ever removing it from his pants – to open a heavy metal door that slams shut with a loud clang as we head down a blindingly bright hallway. It seems weird to me that they have one dark, one light, and nothing in between. Maybe it's a metaphor or something. He stops by a door with a plastic plaque reading "TPU". I guess at what it might stand for – troubled people unit? Temporary psychiatric ugliness? Total personal upheaval? I make a mental note to find out at some point. The door swings open and he nods me in…and there she is.

I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe for her to be in a bed, strapped down, wires and tubes like in the emergency room. Maybe in a jail cell, crouched in the corner, muttering incoherently or something. Not showered, hair done, wearing sweatpants and a cardigan, knitting on a sofa that looks almost like the one at home. She looks up, smiles a little. Normal. She looks normal. I'm frozen, my feet glued in place. She gets up and gives me a little wink as she comes over and folds me into a hug. "Hi, sweetheart."

Last time I saw her she was drugged beyond belief. Delirious. And now she's normal Maggie. _I can't do this._

My feet are moving before I realize the door is locked from the inside. I pull at the handle, twisting even though I know it won't do any good. I turn to the orderly, who nods and opens the door for me, leaving Maggie staring after me with a bewildered expression and this look like I've just slapped her across the face, which makes my insides twist in a knot more than they were already. The orderly is right behind me as I sprint down the hall, opening the doors for me to keep up my pace straight out past Sonya and into the rain and cold of outside, mushy snow underfoot as I run like mad, no idea where to, just away from her, from here, from all of it.


	7. A really good lawyer

"_I would have made a really good lawyer"_

February 1988 (Age Nineteen)

"I think I'm going to try out for the softball team." I'm hanging upside down off the edge of my bed, a licorice rope hanging out of my mouth. I bite the end off and point the licorice at my roommate, Lisa. "Think I can pull of the sporty look?"

Lisa is sitting in my spinning desk chair, her feet propped on my desk. She's painting her toenails blue. "You'd look way killer in a softball uniform." She reaches out and I hand her a licorice rope. She chews on it thoughtfully. "Have you played before?"

I nod. "I played freshman and sophomore years in high school. And Little League."

"What position?" Lisa screws the cap back on the blue polish. Tissues are woven through her toes to separate them.

"Shortstop." I scoot back onto the bed and pull my knees to my chest, back against the wall. "I wasn't bad. I made Varsity my sophomore year."

"Why'd you quit, then?" Lisa begins twisting a strand of hair around her finger.

I haven't told her about Maggie. It's too complicated, to melodramatic, and honestly, it embarrasses me. "We moved, and my new school didn't have a team." A lie. God, I'm well versed at those.

"Bummer." Lisa reaches across and takes another licorice rope. My phone rings suddenly, and I reach for it.

"Hello?"

"Abby?" His voice comes through crackly and soft. I can tell something isn't right.

"Eric? What's wrong?" Lisa looks at me, confused, and I hold up my hand. She shouldn't ask.

"Abby, can you come home?" His voice wavers, almost as though he's crying.

I cradle the phone on my shoulder and start pulling on my jeans. "Where are you, Eric?"

"She's gone, Abby. I came home, and she was just...gone. She left."

"Are you at home, Eric?" I pull on a sweatshirt and slide on my sneakers.

"Yeah."

"Stay right there, Eric. Lock the doors, close the windows, and turn on the lights. Turn on the TV, too. Loud. And don't answer the door for anyone."

"What if it's the police?" He's only twelve and he's already had to deal with the police at our door three or four times.

"Then you ask to see their badges through the window." I grab my keys. "Eric, I'll be there as soon as I can, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks."

"Anytime, buddy." I hang up and turn to Lisa. "I have to go get my brother."

She doesn't ask. She can tell it's not the right time. "Are you bringing him back here?"

I nod. "I don't have a choice. I'm sorry, Lisa, it'll just be for a few days."

"Don't worry about it. Really." She hops off the chair and comes over to gives me a squeeze. "Do you want me to come with you?"

I shake my head. "It's okay. I might stay the night, anyway. I'll be back tomorrow at the latest."

"Okay." She gives me an encouraging smile and grabs something off her desk. She hands me a cassette tape. "Duran Duran. For the road."

I take it and hug her quickly. "Thanks." I take my purse and jog to the parking lot. I managed to buy a used car, knowing something like this would eventually happen. It always does.

I stand outside the door to our apartment. It's past four in the morning. I knock lightly and call out. "Eric?"

Shuffling comes from inside, and I can tell he's looking through the peephole. The bolt slides, then the chain, then the door swings open. I grab him and hug him so tightly I can hear him gag a little. He's almost as tall as I am, but to me, he'll always be my baby brother. We walk inside and I hold him at arms length to inspect him.

"Are you okay?"

He shrugs and nods. "Yeah. It's not the first time, Abby."

I sigh and pull him close again. "I know. She'll be back, sooner or later." I hate that the poor kid suffers like this. He's such a good kid, he shouldn't have to go through this. "I have to go back to school, Eric. I have classes, and I can't miss them. I'll leave my number and a note on the table, and you'll come back to Philadelphia with me." I brush a few curls from his face as he winces, embarrassed by the sisterly affection.

"Okay. Are we going tonight?"

I shake my head. "It's too late tonight. I don't want to drive." I force a smile. "We can have a slumber party. We'll watch a movie, make popcorn, just like we used to. Okay?"

He looks a little more relaxed, and he gives me a little smile. "Okay. I got 'Star Wars'."

"Well then, you get the movie and some blankets, and I'll make popcorn."

When I come back to the living room with the bowl, he's curled on the couch, staring off into space. I sink down next to him. "She'll come back, right Abs?"

"Yeah. It's her thing, you know that." Truth is, I don't know if she will. I never know.

"I know. I just…"

"I know." I sigh and jab him gently. "Don't think about it, okay? It never does much good."

He manages a smile. "Yeah."

He turns on the VCR and grabs the popcorn from me, back in his surrealistic, Maggie-less universe again. I smile, lean back, and feign a calm I don't genuinely feel. Not as though I can do anything else, really. Pretending keeps us going, always has. Always will.


	8. Hole in the wall

_A/N: I'll give you five dollars if you review. Nice or naughty, I don't care._

_I had a really good strategic way to hide the holes in the wall._

October, 1981 (Age Twelve)

It's her fault…the evil witch. She calls Social Services every now and then to come check on us, rather than do it herself. Not that we'd let her in. Eric and I hate her on principle for all the times she and Maggie have fought, all the social workers she's sent to our house, all the times we would've rather a house fall on her than have her come and play the nice aunt like she's not the Wicked Witch of Minnesota. So now there's a social worker at the front door again and Eric is stalling her while I clean up and come up with a better reason why Maggie's not here than she's passed out at some bar downtown.

There's a gaping hole in the hallway where Maggie threw a frying pan the last time she tried to cook and ended up burning dinner. The stain below it is just the right size to cover with my shoes, neatly lined up like they might actually belong there. I can hear Eric pretending to fumble with the bolt, shouting that it's stuck. I pull the poster of David Bowie from my wall and tear the Bubble Yum in my mouth into four pieces, sticking it on the back of the poster to cover the hole. Not great, but it'll do. I run to the door and slide the bolt. "Sorry. He's too little to open it by himself." I tousle his curls and smile at the stern-looking woman. Thank god he's six and adorable. He's the best weapon we have against these people.

"Hello, my name is Miss James. Is your mother here?" The woman looks at Eric, then me, then Eric again.

He's well trained to do the cute thing. "James is a boy name. You're not a boy.

She smiles and crouches down to look at him, extending her hand. "Are you Eric?"

"I don't tell my name to strangers. Mom says if I tell my name to a stranger I'm in big trouble." He glares at the woman's cheery face.

_Perfect. _His cuteness is incredibly convenient. I put my hands on my hips and block the door, not that she couldn't push me aside if she wanted. "Our mom is out shopping at the market for dinner. I can tell her to call you."

She smiles and nods as if she really believes me. "Are you Abby?"

"I don't tell my name to strangers either." I cross my arms over my chest and thrust my hip to one side like I mean business. "And I don't have to let you in without a warrant."

She looks like she's just been slapped. Apparently she doesn't watch _The Rockford Files_ as much as I do. I'm going to be a lawyer someday. "No, you don't, but I'd still like to take a look around. I have an ID if you want."

_I bet you do_. I shake my head. "It could be a fake. People have fake ID's, you know."

Now I know she wants to laugh. I swear, I didn't think it would work, but maybe all my crime books and television have finally paid off. "You know what, you seem like a very responsible young woman. Why don't I give you my card and you can tell your mother to call me when she gets home, is that okay?"

Eric crosses his arms now, too. "Maybe we don't want to give her your card."

I love this kid. He's like a little sidekick. I smile a little. "It's okay. We can give it to her." Just to prove I'm responsible.

"That would be great." She hands it over and smiles down at Eric. "Bye, Eric."

He glares at her and stamps his foot. "I didn't tell you my name, so stop calling me that! It's not polite!"

She smiles and nods and I close the door before bursting out laughing. He grins and follows my lead, laughing loudly and clapping his hands. "We showed her, huh, buddy?"

"We showed her!"


	9. The god damned wall

"_Thank god it was the god damned wall"_

June, 1985 (Age Sixteen)

"Shh!" I hiss urgently, trying as best I can not to burst into giggles. "Seriously, I'm way late for curfew."

"Come on, Abs. Lemme walk you." God, that smile is really way too cute to resist. The way those azure blue eyes are on me, flirting; his sandy hair all falling in his face…fuck, I can't say no to that.

"Fine, just be quiet." I sidle up to him and give him a syrupy smile, letting his fingers twine with mine as we try not to stumble up the path to the front door. I can smell beer and sweat and cotton candy on him and it's weirdly intoxicating.

We stop by the front door and he sways a little, leering down at me. "So…whaddaya think of the fair?"

"I think it's pretty cool." I'm in way the hell over my head with this guy – he's popular, he's gorgeous, he's eighteen, and he's going in for a kiss. I falter for only a second before I can feel his tongue in my mouth. I fight back laughter and wrap my arms around his waist. "Howie…"

"I know. Go." He nudges me towards the door, grinning madly. "You going to the party on Saturday?"

"I don't know." I scuff my sneakers on the ground.

"You should." And with that he's gone.

I practically float through the door, oblivious to the spinning in my head or the fact that I'm not walking totally straight or the fact that…shit.

"Abigail." She's sitting on the sofa with a look that tells me I'm in deep. "It's past midnight."

Beer and Howie Thomas' tongue in my mouth have given me courage. "Yeah, well, it's summer break. Chill out, I'm only –"

"You're an hour and a half late." She stands up and crosses to the kitchen, opening the fridge, pouring herself a drink, turning to face me with pure rage in her eyes. "What do I need to do to get through to you?"

"Get _through_ to me?" I give her an incredulous look. "I barely did anything wrong! I've been home every night this week to watch Eric!"

Her eyes flash. "Don't take that tone with me, young lady."

"What tone?"

"I am your mother! You are to respect me and follow the rules I lay out –"

"Rules?" I'm fuming and I'm pretty sure the neighbors can hear me now. "You don't have to follow the rules, so why should I? You're never home when you say you'll be, half the time you don't even do the shopping, you spend all the money on stupid crap, and you act like a total bitch –"

"Enough!" I see it in slow motion – her arm drawing back, then forward, the glass leaving her hand, coming at me. I shriek as it collides with the wall, barely an inch from my head. My eyes widen as the cold water splashes me and the shards collect at my feet. A horrified look comes over her face. "God, Abby, I'm sorry, I didn't –"

I'm already down the hall, flinging open the door, slamming it shit with a loud crack. "Screw you, Maggie," I mutter, propping a chair in front of my door in case she tries to follow me. I know she didn't mean it. I know she's sick. I know and I just don't care any more. I want to be normal, for once in my life, even just for a day.

I want to go out with a guy and not wonder what she's done to the place while I'm gone.

I want to be six_teen_, not _thirty_-six.

I want to be the daughter, not the mother.

I want a goddamned white picket fence and a nice yard and a mother who bakes brownies and a father who comes home smiling every night and a dog and a normal life.

I reach under my mattress and pull out a pack of Camels. One, two, three taps on the bottom, turn it over, pull one out, rolling the smooth paper gently between my fingers, dig the lighter from my bedside table, and inhale as it burns between my lips. My only real routine anymore. Out the window, I can see the neighborhood, lights turned off, everyone in bed, probably thinking to themselves how damned lucky they are to have such boring, mundane, perfect fucking lives.


	10. Full time job

**A/N: Yeah, so I updated. I'm going to post the remaining chapters pretty quickly as I've decided to stop procrastinating and telling myself I'll finish it. I won't. But that's okay, because it's not a continuous sort of story, just snippets, and I didn't manage to fill in all the lyrics. So sad...(not really).**

"_It was a full time job"_

November, 1985 (Age Sixteen)

_God, I look awful. I should have covered it better._ I touch the bruise gingerly with two fingers. It's black and blue now. Tomorrow it will be a yellowish brown. I know how bruises go. I'm an expert. This one is particularly ugly. Right on my cheekbone, where I can't cover it with my hair. Perfect. I could always use another inquiring look, another sideways glance. But I'm practically immune to the stares now. To the whispers. It's always something. _Shit_. I jump as I hear footsteps. I've been leering at myself in the mirror for too long. I have to be in class. I have to actually be a decent student so I can escape this hell. I have a pile of applications at home, waiting to be filled out. I just have to find the time, but that's just it. I don't have any. I head back to class and slide into my seat, ignoring the teacher's glare. I know that look. He thinks I'm slacking. That I'm not working hard enough. That I show up late because I like to sleep in, that my assignments are crumpled because I'm disorganized, that my papers are late because I'm too busy partying to do my work. He has no idea. He is oblivious. He's on the outside of the disease.

I take the public bus home. I don't want to ride the school bus with the freshmen. It's pathetic and mortifying to be the sole senior without a car. And yet it's my life. I get off two stops from home so that I can stop at the grocery store. Christmas carols are playing over the loudspeaker. It's only November. I reach into my bag for my purse and pull out my wallet. I count the bills to be sure. Eleven dollars. A pack of cigarettes, a box of macaroni for dinner, a gallon of milk, and a package of Oreos. My brother loves Oreos. I take the brown paper bag from the counter and head outside. I light up one of the cigarettes. The bitter smoke fills my mouth and I release it in a long, curling stream into the air. My escape. I know I shouldn't, but I don't care. Everyone has their flaws. I trudge home, balancing the grocery bag in one arm, my bag slung over my shoulder, cigarette dangling from my index and middle fingers. My legwarmers aren't keeping me warm. For once, My mother was right about something. They are useless. But they do look good, and god knows I need the help. Bruised isn't in this year.

I bang on the screen next door and stamp my cigarette out with my foot. "Mrs. Kaufler?" She's half deaf, but she can at least keep tabs on Eric until I get home. It's only a half hour, except on those days when I get detention. My teachers seem to get a thrill out of screwing me over. I don't know why they have it in for me. Mrs. Kaufler comes to the door in her housecoat. She must weigh three hundred pounds. "Is my brother here?"

"Your mother came to get him, dear." She gives me a glance, as if she disapproves already. I don't know what it is.

_Shit…Maggie picked him up?_ "When?"

She consults her watch as if I'm inconveniencing her. "About ten minutes ago."

"Thanks." I push the door open to our apartment. It's open, so at least I know they've been here. "Mom?" I'm pretty sure she's off her medication. The pills have stayed in the little bottle all week.

"In here, honey! Come join us!" Her voice floats out from the bathroom.

I drop my things and head toward the bathroom, not sure what to expect. There are never expectations with her. "Mom, what are you doing?" _Shit_. She has this awful mess in her hair, and it's on the walls a bit. Eric is standing there grinning, painting the gunk into her hair as she sits backwards on the toilet.

"We're dying my hair!" My mother flashes me a grin. "I thought, 'Wouldn't it be fabulous to be a blonde?' And so I picked up a bottle of dye!"

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

She waves me off. "Oh, that, I got tired of it. I told them to go to hell and I left. I'll find something new." She smiles at my brother in the mirror. "Right? Blondes have more fun!"

My brother nods and smiles. He's only ten. "Right!" His soft brown curls bob as he nods his head emphatically.

"Fine. Whatever you say, Maggie." I turn away.

"Oh, don't be such a spoilsport! And I told you to stop calling me that." My mother is obviously manic.

"Fine. I'm thrilled for you, _Mom_." I sigh and head to the kitchen. "I got macaroni and cheese to make for dinner."

"Oh, we had that the other night. Let's go out!" My mother must be crazy. We have no money.

I walk back and stand in the doorway of the bathroom. "We can't afford to go out." I cross my arms. She's like a child.

She shrugs. "So we'll go to Burger King. We can tell them it's your brother's birthday and we'll all wear those crowns!" She looks pleased with her creativity.

"Yeah!" Eric looks thrilled. Great. Just great, Mom, make me look like the bad guy.

I sigh. "Fine. Whatever. I have homework to do." I leave them to their fantasy. It's not worth fighting.


End file.
